


Like the Proverbial Beanstalk

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is sexually frustrated, Implied sub!Dean, M/M, Sam is sixteen, growing!Sam, growth spurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s really no other way to say it. Having grown into himself, Sam Winchester is a good looking guy. More than that, he's sort of exactly the kind of guy that Dean pictures when he pictures himself being fucked up against a wall by somebody with enough upper body strength to pin him there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Proverbial Beanstalk

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here for a prompt: http://ben-wisehart.tumblr.com/post/52495802435/

Dean makes a note of when Sam starts growing—really growing. He makes a note about everything the kid does; when he’s happy or angry or when he’s had something to drink. It’s his job; he can’t take care of Sam when he misses stuff.

So when Sammy, the chubby twelve-year-old, begins to stretch upwards, Dean notices instantly. He can’t deny that the kid looks cute, all lanky and disproportionate limbs. He’s always been short; he makes a point of constantly telling Dean that he’ll be taller than him soon enough. Dean always laughs it off with a ruffle to his hair.

With that in mind, he has no idea how it’s such a shock when Sam is suddenly sixteen years old, six foot two and a solid mass of muscle standing above him. It’s not like he’d stopped paying attention; he pays Sam more attention than he pays the average werewolf when it’s trying to rip his heart out. But the transition just seems so sudden; one minute his baby brother is a nerdy kid who wants to learn magic tricks and the next he’s…hot.

There’s really no other way to say it. Having grown into himself, Sam Winchester is a good looking guy. More than that, he's sort of exactly the kind of guy that Dean pictures when he pictures himself being fucked up against a wall by somebody with enough upper body strength to pin him there. Dean doesn’t know when he actually starts to notice. He sees Sam shirtless often enough. Dad makes sure they’re both in shape, but on Sam, the toned muscle of his arms and torso are impossible to ignore. He can only hope Sam never catches him staring.

Right now, Dad’s left them alone again. Dean doesn’t get why; they’re both old enough to go on hunts. Dean is twenty, after all. But according to Dad, this case is a one-man mission and they’re not responsible enough to work a case without him, so they’re under house arrest in a dinky motel room again. Dean tries to pretend Dad’s statement doesn’t hurt.

“Dean, check this out.” Dean looks up from the table he’s been hunched over with a pot of two-minute noodles. Sam is sprawled out over his bed with a stack of newspapers, wearing nothing but his pants. Dean swallows.

“What is it?” He gets up and walks over to join him, crouching beside the bed so they’re eye level. He keeps his eyes fixed on the paper in Sam’s hands. Doesn’t know what he’ll do if he looks anywhere else.

“Possible case,” Sam explains, pointing to an article down the bottom of the page. “This guy was meant to go to a poker night with some friends, never showed up. The next day—which was yesterday—he was found dead on the side of the road two miles out from town and, get this, his  _skin_  was liquefied and in a puddle around him.”

Dean makes a face. “That does sound weird. We should check it out when Dad gets back.”

Sam shakes his head in disagreement. “We’ve got the Impala and it’s only an hour’s drive from here. We should look into it ourselves.”

“Dad would never—”

Sam huffs with exasperation. “Dean, we’re not kids anymore. We don’t need his approval for everything.”

Dean can’t help but shudder at this, for a multitude of reasons. It’s not like doing something as big as working a case without their father’s all-clear has ever led to good things, but it’s also Sam’s words. He's so damn casual about the whole thing. Like he’s not the least bit scared of what could happen. “Sammy, no.”

Sam suddenly tosses the newspaper aside, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Are we ever going to talk about this?”

Dean stiffens. “About what?”

“About Sammy.” Sam sits up, and suddenly he’s looking down at Dean. “I’m sixteen—hell, I’m taller than you now, Dean. Can you stop treating me like a child, please?”

Dean should probably stand then, at least giving himself the height advantage, but he doesn’t. He does grin, though. “Still older, Sammy.” It sounds ridiculous to Dean even as he says it, but he doesn’t care. His brain has decided to abandon him.

Sam outright growls, and his hand is suddenly grabbing Dean’s shoulder. A shiver runs down Dean’s spine, and damn if that’s not the hottest thing that's happened to him in a long time. “I could still kick your ass,” Sam mutters. Dean’s smile widens. 

“Yeah? Prove it.”

Sam shoves him in the chest. It’s not hard; he used to do it all the time when they were little. Dean could have resisted it but he doesn't. He instinctively lets himself be pushed, because it’s Sam. He falls back into a sitting position, momentarily dazed. “That was hot, Sammy.” There's a smirk on Dean's face now. Rather than sounding affronted, Sam’s eyes just narrow more as he gets off the bed and hauls Dean to his feet. A moment later, Dean’s back is against the wall and Sam’s warm breath is inches away, ghosting across his face. 

“It’s Sam,” he hisses, glaring down at him. Dean can feel his heart flutter, and he’s dizzy—really dizzy—as the blood rushes downwards. For one wild minute, his confidence falters. Sam glances down at his lips, and Dean holds his breath. 

Then Sam releases him, and Dean is left floundering for a grip on reality. He slumps forward again. He doesn’t say anything, not quite prepared to admit defeat but completely unwilling to defy him again. Either way, he knows who had the upper hand, and it sure as hell wasn’t him. 

“I’ll call Bobby,” Sam mutters, sitting back down on the bed again without looking at Dean. “Maybe he can put another hunter onto the case.” 

“Yeah…do that.” Dean looks around the room, and everything is the same, as though his little brother didn’t just give him a boner. “I’m going to take a shower.” A cold one—or a warm one with enough pressure to cover noise, he hasn’t decided yet. Sam just nods, without looking at him.

Dean takes another look over the shape of Sam’s shoulders before he makes his escape. When he dies, he is going straight to hell.


End file.
